The Note in the Bottom Drawer
by SallySorrell
Summary: A oneshot series with something for everyone; humor, romance, sweet scenes and sad ones.  Chapter 14: Kelly and Jim's daily gossip is interrupted.  By Dwight.  Who feels the need to correct their errors.  Also, Kelly makes an exciting discovery.
1. Wingman

_Wingman_

Andy sat down to his desk earlier than usual Monday morning. His first order of business was removing his self-reminder post-it from the corner of his monitor.

_Navy Suit. Pro-Wingman. Friday after eight. _It said.

* * *

><p>"I really do owe you, man." Andy said to Oscar in the break room the previous Friday.<p>

Oscar shook his head, sighing mildly. Andy proceeded, unhampered:

"No worries, I've got this figured out. You, me, the absolute grooviest club-slash- gay-bar in the city limits. And guys..." Here, he tilted his head and smiled, quirking his brow, "Hot."

"I appreciate it but I don't think it'll work."

"Dude. I will hook you _up_. I could go pro as a wingman."

Oscar agreed, after an internal "Why the hell not?" sort of realization.

In truth, Andy planned the outing far enough in advance, and wouldn't have accepted 'no' as an answer.

He checked his watch as he stepped out of the dry cleaner's, navy suit draped gently over his arm. At home, he changed into it, deciding it was suave enough, before rushing back into his car.

They met in the parking lot outside of the club to go over plans.

"I got the table under control. You go for drinks..." Andy recited, "But not both at once. Make two trips. Then you look like you aren't here on a date, and that you might be the perfect amount of tipsy. You get me?"

"Sure." Oscar didn't mind going along with it, as long as he was there. He missed spending time with Andy, anyway, after their bonding over a business trip.

Andy commandeered a dimly-lit spot near the dancefloor, which he watched until Oscar's second drink trip. The neon lights were dizzying as they flashed.

"Cheers?" Offered Oscar, taking his seat.

They toasted to absolutely nothing.

"That blond one." Andy said after awhile of quietly sipping his cherry-colored drink, "He came in by himself. And don't mind me saying that he's totally attractive. Textbook, I mean."

"Why would I mind you sa...?" Oscar caught himself and rephrased, "Yah, he's alright."

Andy studied the guy, thrilled when he actually chose a table near theirs. He turned up his smile until his jaw ached. That's when the new guy came closer.

"We're not here on a date." Andy stated, setting down his glass.

The blond guy looked back and forth, deciding almost instantly to give Andy his focus.

"That's cool." He said, voice reserved, "I'm meeting a couple friends later too. Might be able hook your buddy up." Here, he gestured to Oscar.

Andy put his hand to his chest dramatically, though his voice was even and careless.

"Nobody for the Nard-Dog. Great..."

The blond turned sharply back to Andy.

"Sorry that wasn't clear, I guess. You didn't get that I was, like, asking you out?"

"Oh..." Andy rubbed his lips and thought quickly, "I'm really flattered but I was thinking more along the lines of... well, maybe a woman. You were talking friends...?"

The blond guy left and moved his table.

"Smooth." Oscar muttered. He buried his face in his glass, embarrassed to watch the blond meet up with his friends. He studied what he could have been set up with, had Andy acted normal.

A second man ambled past Andy and Oscar's table. He paused a moment, offering Andy a completely corny wink before heading to the dancefloor.

Oscar gaped across the table.

"It's the suit." Said Andy, "Sorry... accents my eyes, y'know."

He unbuttoned it and hung it on the back of his chair. Oscar rolled his eyes, noticing Andy was now displaying his matching, shiny waistcoat.

"You look ridiculous."

"Uh, really? Cuz the guys here seem to think it's pretty spiffy. Wanna borrow it or what?"

"No one calls anything 'spiffy'."

"No one's hitting on you, last I checked."

Oscar huffed, but was forced to trade jackets anyway. The logic _was_ stacked against him.

When a third guy approached the table, wearing a navy shirt and (unbuttoned) waistcoat, Oscar started to believe the superstition in the suit. And in Andy's fashion sense.

The three of them got into a fairly engaging discussion. But that's when the music shut off.

Andy stood up, habitually enraged.

"Gonna go request a song." He told Oscar, "Wait for me."

Oscar stayed behind, talking with the third man at the table. His name was Stephen, and he was the best part of Oscar's night so far. He found it harder to keep conversation going without Andy present, and was relieved when he returned.

"Shall we move to the dancefloor?" he asked, almost out of breath, "Oscar's got some great moves."

Oscar scrunched his face, trying to think of the last time he'd even _watched_ anyone dance.

The song Andy had requested started up a few seconds later.

"Great song." Said Stephen, "I didn't know anyone else even knew it."

"Pff." Declared Andy, "Love the indie scene."

Oscar opened his mouth, ready to re-enter the conversation. But that's when Andy started singing along.

Stephen's jaw dropped into an unbelieving smile.

"That's awesome." He said to them, "Really, really cool... you wanna dance with me?"

"Here," Andy stopped to breathe and nudged Oscar forward, "You guys dance. I'll _sing_ this one out."

Stephen rushed for his phone, pretending to be shocked by the time.

"I'll catch you guys later. Sorry..."

He did, however, find time to leave Andy his number.

Oscar sighed and went to pay their tab.

"We should probably go, too." He told Andy.

"Sure, man. Whatever you want."

They returned to their cars, opening the doors in unison.

"Hey, same time next week?" Andy asked.

Oscar couldn't decide on whether to nod or shake his head. He and Andy tossed their jackets back to each other like it was an afterthought.

"Maybe."

"Cool. I think it went okay. Next week, we've got something to build on, ya know?"

Andy drove home, humming to himself.

Oscar started his car, swearing to himself to buy the next navy suit he saw.

Oh, and to find a new wingman.


	2. Complaint 307

_Complaint 307_

One day, Toby was _finally_ able to reach the bottom of his in-tray, without new stacks of paperwork being dropped off. He felt internally proud as he reached for the last sheet, noticing it was even stamped as 'void'! His courage melted away, though, when he read the heading...

* * *

><p>"I'd like to file a complaint." Angela leaned around Toby's cubicle wall, standing on her toes and clutching tightly to a binder.<p>

Toby turned, tried not to sigh noticeably, and reached for the stack of blank forms on his desk.

He cleared the space in front of him and prepared a pen. Angela stepped into the office and glanced around with a calculating look.

"What's your... complaint?"

"My Casual Friday outfits have all been completely professional and appropriate. I'd like you to formally withdraw everything you said about them being unacceptable."

"You're complaining about _my_ rules for an event that _I _approved..." Still, he wrote it down.

Angela flipped through the binder she held. She slammed it in front of him and pointed emotionally to a picture on it.

"I wore this last Friday, which is when you made the comments."

Toby scratched his head and set down the pen.

"That's fine."

"It's appropriate." She turned back a few pages, "And so is this one. And this. And everything is listed by date worn in the index, here."

Toby looked sick at the thought of researching a complaint against himself.

"All your outfits are fine." He shut the binder and shoved it out of his way.

Just as he was capping the pen, Angela made a small coughing noise, indicating she was still in need of something.

"What is it?" He regretted turning his head.

"I appreciate your compliments."

Toby said nothing.

"Really," Angela continued, taking a single step forward, "That greatly improves my mood and self-confidence."

Everything Toby ever learned about his field told him he needed to agree with her before she walked away. She might even be one of those people that sought special privileges...

"It's no big deal. You can still have Casual Fridays, I guess."

"That isn't what I asked for."

"...Because all of your outfits are appropriate and professional."

Angela gave him half a smile for half a second.

"Did you have anything else you wanted to tell me?" Toby watched her fold the binder under her arm.

"I don't approve of public displays of affection in a workplace..."

His attention snapped from the paper he was writing on, while he went for another form.

"I don't either... who wa...?"

She looked excited to cut him off:

"But I may need to kiss your hand."

He turned over both his hands on his desk for an inspection. Maybe something to enlighten him.

"It is a sign of gratitude." She explained, taking one of them.

He had no clue what to think or express when she kissed it.

Her lips barely touched it, but they were cold.

For the rest of the day, Toby rubbed at the thin print of lipstick on his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I am currently working on chapters with Dwight, Kelly, and Michael. Also, some more Toby, Oscar, and Andy on the way... because I love them so.<br>What characters or pairings do YOU want to see? I adore your input, dearest readers!**


	3. Time to Spare

_Time to Spare_

Kelly took an extra-long lunch break so she could clean out her desk.

"It's really cluttered and I can't find anything that's important." She announced to whoever would listen.

As she emptied almost every paper in her drawers, she stumbled onto one that looked interesting.

"Oscar!" she shouted, still looking at the paper. She leapt from her desk and tumbled over to his.

Breathing in a prayer that this would be a brief conversation, Oscar turned to her.

"Can you run the numbers on this really quick? It's my phone bill and I think it's wrong."

He took the paper. Kelly continued her rushed speech, though to herself now.

"You already paid this. It's six months old."

"It's wrong, it's wrong. Please?"

He nodded, receiving a squeaky "oh my god thank you!" as he set to work.

The math took him no more than a minute. To reassure Kelly, he highlighted the total and circled the work he did in the margins for her approval.

"Does that mean it's right?"

"Yes."

"But it can't be! They must of… _under_-charged me or something. But I _always_ go over my minutes!"

"I don't know what happened, Kelly. Can I get back to work now?"

Kelly stood, mouth open, as she remembered…

* * *

><p>It was the first day of a new month. Kelly's cell phone sat in the center of her desk. Even though she never heard it ring, she would check it frequently.<p>

She was waiting on a text from Ryan. They wanted to meet in the break-room before lunch hours started.

"Whatever." She told her phone when its battery began to protest. The screen dimmed.

In a panic, Kelly checked the clock on the wall instead. She decided it was close enough to their meeting time, and snatched up her injured phone on her way to the break-room.

Her phone made a strange fizzling noise as a new text message appeared on the screen.

She stopped exactly where she was to read it. Which she did at least twenty times.

"What?" she said softly, then, a realization. "Ryan! Oh my god, Ryan!"

She met him in the break room, and she was not happy.

"Hi, Kelly." He looked hopeless, and was trying to pocket his phone without her noticing.

The door was slammed, but the volume was no match for Kelly's anger. She opened it and slammed it once more, causing Toby to jump in his seat.

"You just killed my phone with the absolute rudest text I've ever seen in my whole life."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, aren't you so cool. Now you just look _really_ stupid. You just told me to my face over text that I'm whiny and manipulative. You can't just throw words like that around… someone might not understand them right."

"I still don't know what you're talking about. I sent you the message to meet me, like you said earlier. And you obviously got that, if you're standing here."

"Don't use that attitude with me! You're the worst boyfriend ever."

Ryan shrugged at this and turned to the fridge. He might as well get a head-start on lunch.

"Let me see your phone." Muttered Ryan.

"No. Not even. You're a liar and you don't even like me."

He held out his hand, and wasn't surprised at all when she set her phone carefully in it.

It took him a second to scan her inbox. Then he found it… a message he meant to send to a friend. Yes, it _was_ about Kelly, but it certainly wasn't _for_ her.

"Sorry." He admitted. He didn't bother explaining because he knew she would interject. Then continue until she passed out or something more interesting happened.

On the table, he spread out his lunch and tried to focus on it.

"You know what, Ryan? I'm not gonna talk to you ever again. Nuh-uh, not one more time."

"Really?" He took a slice of pizza from his bag and stepped hesitantly over to microwave it.

"Not one more text. Not one more phone call. I'm completely serious."

"You can't do that."

She wrestled for her phone and ran out.

"I mean it!" she called from the doorway. Toby cringed and tried to catch Ryan's eyes through the window. His face begged, "What was that about?"

The look he and Ryan exchanged was a fun twist of disbelief and amusement.


	4. Ticket to Revenge

_Ticket to Revenge_

Creed looked routinely through his folder of... legal issues.

One stub of paper caught his attention; he shoved on his glasses and gaped at it, shaking his head.

He stood and went to Meredith's desk.

"This can't be mine." He told her. He waved the page around, but not near enough for her to read it.

She shrugged.

"What is it?"

"Parking ticket... I don't get those."

"Oh god, _that_'s where it was. Give it here, I need it."

"Thought so."

He set down the paper and strolled back to his desk, hands in his pockets. It was hard to forget, but Creed still managed...

* * *

><p>"Psst, Creed!" Meredith waved a hand at him until she caught his attention.<p>

"Hmm?"

"Need your help with something."

Checking the room around him, he met her.

"What's the deal?" he said quietly.

"You know how Michael hit with his damn car?"

He thought for a second, then agreed with her.

"Well, I figured you could help me get him back."

"We talking hit-and-run? I know a guy who's got an unregistered vehicle, no plates or..."

"No! I'm not gonna kill anyone. Just wanna mess with him."

"Still shouldn't use your car."

"Calm down, Skippy. Meet me by _my _car at four fifteen."

"Got'cha."

And so they met. Meredith started her van while Creed packed and unpacked his briefcase in the back seat.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

"Fake ID I haven't used yet."

"Oh please, just sit down! Michael knows your name, stupid."

Not even waiting for Creed to shut the door, Meredith pulled the van around to the space behind Michael's. Without a care, she backed into the concealed space behind the dumpster.

For about an hour, Creed glanced back and forth between his watch and the passing security guard. The guard spent too much time on his cell phone for Creed's liking. Not just because he wasn't technologically savvy, but because it looked awfully suspicious as well.

"Who d'ya think he's talking to?" Creed kept asking.

Meredith ignored him until she noticed Michael walking out of the front doors.

"Who _cares_! Here we go... wait for it."

She forced the car into 'drive' and pulled forward. Michael saw her and started to wave, not concerned or not aware that she'd missed an hour of work.

Then, from out of nowhere, the security guard appeared at a full run.

He rushed to open the gate and lead in a police car. Its sirens were off, but it still looked intimidating.

Michael watched, intrigued. Meredith stopped the car while Creed ducked in the seats.

The officer stepped out of his car and walked to Meredith's window, which she grudgingly rolled down.

"Hey, officer..."

"Got a couple complaints about your loitering... Then I get here and see you're parked in my space, ma'am."

"It's a..." she turned, "It's not. It's a fire lane."

The policeman was not amused. He scribbled upon a ticket, then heaved it through her window.

"No need to see any ID." He told Meredith, watching her reach for her purse, "It's nothing major. And you are on private property."

Creed took a shallow breath, leaning further into the seat. Meredith swatted at her chair, annoyed when he budged her.

Michael joined the scene, fighting for space in the window.

"She giving you trouble, officer?" he began, likely setting up a horrible joke.

The cop shook his head.

"We're done here. Drive safe."

"Yeah, Meredith." Said Michael, continuing even though she was rolling up her window, "I think I'm gonna make a new Dundie this year, just for you... 'Worst Dunder-Mifflin Driver'... it's not a great name but I'm working on it."

"I never hit anyone." She shouted, opening the window again, just a crack.

"You were gonna," announced Creed, finally sitting normally, "That's worse, legally."

"Get out."


	5. Sugar Cookies

_Sugar Cookies_

A recipe card fluttered to Toby's desk, landing upside-down. He was reaching to the top shelf for an empty folder, and dislodged a few stray papers on his way.

Cautiously, he turned it over and studied it.

It brought him a smile, but that was promptly replaced with his own brand of wide-eyed defeat.

* * *

><p>Toby kept tapping the counter. He looked to the timer he set and then to his refrigerator.<p>

A door closed behind him, and his daughter tiptoed in shortly after.

"What are you doing, Daddy?"

"Waiting, Sweetie."

"Can I wait with you?"

He started to nod as the timer started to ring.

From the fridge, he took a covered glass bowl. He set it down on the counter, pushing the timer aside.

"Do you know which cabinet the sprinkles are in?" Toby asked her.

Sasha was sitting at the counter and swinging her legs, because they couldn't quite reach the ground.

"Yes." She jumped down and jogged to get them.

"And cookie cutters... the ones we use at Christmas..?"

"Okay."

She returned to the counter, and Toby helped her unload what she brought back.

"Do you want to help, Sasha?"

She grinned and nodded rapidly.

He sat her back down and began pounding small clumps of cookie dough flat for her to work with. She picked out the generic cookie cutters (those that weren't shaped like Christmas trees or reindeer) and set to work, humming.

"Why are you making sugar cookies?" The obvious question finally entered Sasha's mind. Half of the dough had already been flattened and cut.

"For someone at work. It's her birthday tomorrow."

"Can we make cookies for my birthday this time?"

Toby half-laughed, "You wanted a cake. With strawberries on top?"

"Oh."

Once all of the dough had been assigned a shape, Toby opened the jars of sprinkles and sugars.

He looked instinctively to his watch, after he noticed Sasha yawn.

"You should go to bed now, Sasha. Come on."

"Hang on. I want to make a birthday card. Just really fast."

Keeping her promise, she ran to her room and back, bringing out a folded piece of yellow paper, a box of markers, and dull scissors.

"How do you spell the girl's name?"

"You met her before, Sweetie. Her name is Pam."

"P...?"

"P, A, M."

She wrote it very carefully, then added a couple hearts and a large sunflower to the corner.

"Goodnight, Daddy."

He kissed her cheek and walked her to her room.

Then he worked well into the night on decorating the cookies. He had to splash water over his face just to stay awake while the oven was on.

He flipped the card over and signed for himself and his daughter.

While he packed the finished cookies into a shiny bag, he met a painful thought:

The time he spent decorating them, however taxing, was nowhere near the amount of time Jim spent at her desk.


	6. Social Time

_Social Time_

In sorting through his briefcase, Dwight found something that caught his interest.

Within his planner, he noticed an old calendar page, corners worn and folded.

"Hmm," he sighed to himself.

The majority of the dates on the planner were blank or labeled with, 'work' or something about the farm. One weekend, though, had 'social time' written across the heading. It was highlighted in blue.

"That's Michael's color..." Dwight mused.

* * *

><p>Dwight stood behind Michael's chair in his office. It was near the end of work on Friday, and the rest of the office watched through the blinds, hoping this 'meeting' would have no effect on what time they went home.<p>

Michael held his head in his hands, and was staring down at a set of perforated tickets.

"I just want you to know you really are my last choice for this." Michael muttered, mainly to the tickets, "Jan has yoga and Jim is actually tr..."

"But I promised to offer critique. How many of your friends can accurately critique an improvised performance?"

"No, no. Don't even do that. That's just being a downer."

"It's constructive."

"No critiques, Dwight. My team can't handle it, if you were honest..."

Dwight rolled his eyes, even lifting an eyebrow at Michael's clueless comment.

"A critique _is _honest, that's the point."

"D-Don't. Just... seven o'clock tomorrow. I printed directions."

Dwight took the tickets and walked out, collecting a relieved breath from the other workers as he shut Michael's door.

Saturday rolled by, offering a mild glittering of snow. Though it greatly improved the landscape, it forced Dwight inside. He paced his 'lobby', glancing frequently out the window. The snow had stopped, but now he had to wait for it to melt... a cheap and hassle-free way of softening the soil.

Just as he was heading upstairs to get ready for Michael's improv show, there was a knock at his door.

He opened it slowly.

"Hello," said a teenage girl. Another girl stood behind her, holding a crate and brushing her obviously-dyed black hair out of her eyes.

"The tour's been cancelled for today," said Dwight, "But I admire a beet enthusiast."

"Oh... umm," the second girl came forward with the crate. It wasn't empty, "We weren't here for a... tour."

"We're selling gourmet hot-chocolate to raise money to go to volleyball camp."

"It's gonna be a cold winter," the black-haired girl announced, gesturing to the small piles of snow, "And if you could help us out it would be really great."

"I can help you." Dwight said simply. He stood outside with them, shutting the front door.

"What kind do you want? Each box is five dollars, and we have dark chocolate, marshmallow crème, vanilla be..."

"Hang on, you asked for help. And I will not buy a box until you get it."

The teens looked back and forth at each other.

"What are your names?"

"Oh, just make checks payable to the Scranton Recreation Te..."

"No, your names."

"Eva." Said the black-haired girl. At the same time, her friend said, "Michelle."

"Eva and Michelle. You should consider your marketing strategy here... What do you think I'm interested in?"

Silence. The girls' mouths hung open.

"Well, if I weren't here to help you, you would've lost a sale. If you came here looking for money for '4H' or 'Future Farmers'," he indicated these with overenthusiastic air-quotes, "then you could've wrung me out."

The girls looked again to each other, deciding to nod. It made sense.

"Do you have samples? Tangible stuff sells better. That's why people hate telemarketers."

"We have a page that has the nutrition information," Admitted Eva, "And it has the scents of each flavor, if that helps."

"A little bit. Why didn't you say so?"

The page was passed to Dwight. As he studied the sodium content in the vanilla variety, he continued:

"You should group your prices. It makes people _think_ they're getting a better deal."

"Like _two_ for five dollars?" asked Michelle, taking back the sheet, "We can't change the..."

"No. Like, I'll take ten for fifty, for example."

"Are you serious?" Michelle looked up at him while Eva counted the product left in their crate.

"Yes. All dark chocolate, if you can manage."

Bills and boxes of coca were exchanged.

Dwight and the girls waved goodbye to one another when Dwight noticed his watch.

"Damn it." He tilted his head to the ceiling and left for the stairs.

His hair was combed in record time, and he threw a couple khaki jackets over his casual outfit for the weather.

He cleaned his glasses on his shirt as he ran back down the stairs.

Again, he checked his watch. He was parking at the community theatre and it was half past seven.

Quickly, he presented his tickets and dashed to find a seat relatively near the middle on the left side. ("It sucks, sitting in the middle," he explained to the camera crew, "The contrast is pitiful. It's harder to get out of, too, when the theatre's on fire.")

He saw Michael, just walking out of a scene. A new one began, but he sat out of it. One of the performers collected suggestions from the audience, while the others clumped together behind her for one last scene. In which Michael said about four words.

Dwight sighed and already started to script his apology. Just in case Michael noticed his absence.

They met backstage. In the parking lot, more specifically.

"Did you just come to pick me up?" Michael glared.

"I was there. Even if I wasn't, it isn't possible for most people to see a crowd through stage lighting, especially with a PAR64 grade of..."

"I kept asking about your tickets. They weren't checked in."

"I was there at seven thirty. I saw three games, and you were in two of them."

"Why were you late?"

"Helping future salesmen."

Michael nodded.

"I caught the scene where you were a cop." Said Dwight, genuinely trying to improve the mood.

"Agent Michael Scarn?" Michael picked up a smile, "That one was great... Stacy kept coming in and giving me doughnuts. And I told her that s..."

"'Secret agents only eat invisible doughnuts.' I saw that part, yah."

Michael breathed in a little bit of accomplishment.

"You were gonna drop me off at home though, right?" Michael suddenly asked, "Jan has the car..."

"That seems like an appropriate trade off, since I missed half the show."

"Shotgun!" called Michael.

They walked to Dwight's car. The small crowd from the theatre had already dispersed.

"Would you like some hot chocolate, Michael?" Dwight shut his door and turned his head.

Michael furrowed his brow, confused. He finally decided saying, 'sure' couldn't possibly hurt.

Dwight passed him one of the boxes, extracting a puzzled look of defeat from his boss.

"You didn't even _make_ me hot chocolate? For my stage debut?"

"I'll drive you to and from work tomorrow as well."


	7. Let Loose

_Let Loose_

Kevin waited behind Angela's desk. She'd recently decided it best to refuse to answer him when he tapped on the overhead window between them. So now, he took four extra steps a day to speak with her.

Eventually, she turned around.

"What?" she sounded as if he'd already asked her twenty times.

"I was checking the expense report for the Party Planning Committee..."

"_Good_. That's your _job_, Kevin." She started to turn back to her computer screen...

"And it doesn't add up right."

"I'm not showing you again how to do the percentage formula. You _know _that we get eight percent of the..."

"No, _I_ added right. The receipts don't match with the log... there's a bottle of _White Zinfandel_ on the report. That's wine."

Oscar glanced over.

"Let me look at that."

Kevin passed it to him.

"This is a month old... why didn't you have me approve it yet?"

"You were in Winnipeg." Snapped Angela.

"I still could've checked some of this against receipts. Like the wine? I thought that we banned alcohol from the Party Planning Committee's rights awhile back. After the Christmas party with..."

"We get it." growled Angela, "Hand me the paper, I'll fix it myself."

She took it, glared at Kevin until he returned to his seat, then dropped the report into the shredder beside her.

* * *

><p>"How rebellious." Dwight praised her over the phone, voice like velvet, "Using company money on wine."<p>

Even though she was alone, she felt the need to whisper: "I can't do it again, because Oscar is supposed to approve my expenditures."

"He doesn't need to see it. Put it under the Party Planning Committee, then."

She huffed, like she expected him to already know why that wouldn't work:

"We have a check and balance system. That's why I get to enjoy reading over Kevin's coffee and doughnut expenses twice a week."

"I'll fix it, Monkey."

She closed her cell phone without thanking him.

As she scanned the break-room for suspicion, Dwight did the same down in the warehouse.

They met at her house late that evening.

Dwight cleared her counter, replacing her stacks of cat-themed scrapbooks with his own vase of roses. She contributed the wine bottle, from the fridge, which he gently took from her and displayed alongside the vase.

"You're brilliant," he told her, scratching away a spot on the counter, "It's a shame _Andy_ isn't here to see it. And that Oscar isn't here to count what you spent on our fun."

With a slight look of regret, Angela wiped the condensation off of the wine bottle. Dwight set to opening it, then fetching them two mugs ("Why would I have wine glasses?" Angela demanded, "Do I _really_ appear that trashy?")

That's when Angela's cell phone rang, shaking on the table.

She flipped it open, only to be met with Andy's ramblings and Oscar's occasional support in the background. It didn't take her long to hang up on them.

With a nasty glare at her phone, Angela's mind reset itself.

She took Dwight by the collar, causing him to spill the wine he was pouring.

"To the Party Planning Committee's best event yet!" he toasted, once his lips were free.


	8. No Monetary Value

_No Monetary Value_

Holly's smile kept getting wider and wider. She stumbled onto a handful of gold coins at the bottom of the cup-holder in her passenger seat. Each one of them seemed to purchase an extra expansion in her grin, as she swept them into her purse.

* * *

><p>"That's a great idea for a first date, Michael." Holly beamed, as he stepped into her car.<p>

"Second date," he corrected her, easing his door shut, "I count Toby's going-away-party as a holiday _and_ our first date."

"Then we went to a carnival for both dates? It's not original anymore." She laughed and turned the key.

"I don't know when a carnival can get boring."

They continued their playful chat as Holly drove them to the Scranton Fair, a weeklong engagement downtown. Michael already had their tickets, and later admitted to practicing some of the games in the office, ensuring Holly had some ridiculous prize to go home with.

Both of their faces lit up like those of children, as they stepped out of the car. The lights and sounds waved to them and welcomed them in at a run.

"What do you wanna do first?" Asked Michael, reaching for Holly's hand.

After she slipped on a pair of knit gloves, she let him take it.

"Definitely bumper cars. And after that, the only right thing to do is get cotton candy."

"You've been reading up on carnival etiquette."

She giggled, and they wandered until they found cotton candy (after a sad discovery that the bumper cars were closed early.)

"Can I get blue and pink together?" Holly asked the attendant, "That's the only way to do it."

He glared and shook his head.

"I don't get paid enough to violate health codes, lady."

Michael stepped in front of her.

"Can I get one of each, please?"

The attendant rolled his eyes and obliged. Michael handed him the money, and, amused by the attendant's disgusted expression, he tore both piles of cotton candy in half.

Michael pressed the blue and pink together, until a dense and gritty ball of purple was formed. He passed this to Holly. She fed it to him as they walked, occasionally taking a bit for herself.

They found an empty bench and sat to watch the Ferris wheel. The lights on it fluttered along the street, some of them splashing into the canal it was backed up to.

"Let's do that, next." Holly said, "Like our first date."

"Sure." Agreed Michael, "Just let me pick up tickets for games."

"Me like." Said Holly, in a robotic tone.

They waited until the wheel had stopped before they approached it. There was only a small line, and they got a whole cart to themselves.

Holly tried to count the parking spaces in the lot behind the canal. Michael helped but quickly surrendered.

"I really, really love spending time with you." Michael told her quietly, "It's great. I used to be so miserable... because of Jan."

Holly nodded at him and smiled without showing her teeth. It was too dark for him to see them, anyway.

"What game do you want to play first?" Michael inquired as their cart neared the top of the wheel, "It's all up to you."

"No games for me, but sleep. It was a long week at work, and I'm still not used to the time difference."

Michael honestly wasn't sure whether or not she _had_ crossed a time-zone. But it didn't matter.

"Unless you really feel the need to win me a stuffed animal. I'm okay with that." Holly added immediately.

"No, that's fine."

Michael already prepared this. He'd discussed _every _possible scenario earlier with Dwight.

"Here," he told her, reaching into his pockets. He removed a handful of shiny gold tokens and slid them into her palm, "That can be a _token_ of our love."

"That's really corny." She laughed.

"On the cob, it is." He laughed at himself and continued shoveling out tokens, "And don't say it's cheesy, cuz I was just gonna ask, 'brie-lly?'"

"Okay... it's... sweet, like sugar, if I think about it a lot." She glanced down, then suddenly back up, "Can I exchange them for prizes?"

"They have 'no monetary value.'" He held one up to the buzzing light at the top of their cart to read.

"I see." Her tone was new and nasally. Michael tried to figure out who she was impersonating, but decided it would be disheartening to ask. As a performer, he hated being questioned.

She counted them as the wheel meandered back down to the lot.

"Thanks for tonight, Michael," she assured him, "Even though I cut it short. Sorry about that."

"No worries." Said Michael. He helped her out of the cart and escorted her back to the parking lot.

"I'd kiss you goodbye," began Holly, "But I still have to drive you home."

"You don't, really... I mean. Yah, second date, okay."

"You can keep a token for that." She tossed him one from her coat pocket, eager to reset her hands on the steering wheel.

"I will... forever, probably."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: How are you liking it so far? Which chapters or quotes are your favorites? I really love the response this has been getting so far... up next, look for fun with the Finer Things Club and a dare for Dwight! See ya around :)<strong>


	9. The Referee

_The Referee_

Andy peered at the card Phyllis discovered beneath her keyboard, trying his best to read it. He leaned in further and further until it was likely he would fall forward and knock over his monitor. Stanley's eyes were laughing while his mouth furrowed.

"Calm down, Andy." She told him, tone neither mocking nor serious.

The card had an 'A' written in one margin, and a 'D' in the other. Underneath both letters were sets of tally marks, which Phyllis didn't bother counting.

Andy returned to his posture to normal, but widened his eyes instead.

"What is that?" he said through a nervous and automatic grin.

"It's... personal."

"I-I need to know what that is. It's gonna bother me all day."

Phyllis decided a sulking, shut-minded Andy would be no fun to deal with for another few hours. She put the card down and he took it, smiling his thanks.

* * *

><p>Sighing and shrugging, Andy hung up his desk phone.<p>

"Hey, Andy." Dwight leaned back in his chair, which Jim watched intently.

"What, Dwight?" he tossed a hand and focused on his phone, "Do you really need to talk to me after that losing streak. That's three clients in a week."

"Yes. I do. I happen to know why you're the worst salesman _ever_." Dramatically, he spun his chair to face Andy's desk. Jim shook his head and looked back at his work, determining this show wasn't worth watching anymore.

"That wasn't very nice." Recited Andy, sort of under his breath.

"Exactly."

"What does that even mean?"

"You're too nice to the clients. All I hear you saying is, 'Yes, please walk all over me. I enjoy losing money and being the worst salesman at my branch.' What kind of pitch is that?"

"I... don't say anything like that."

"Well, your tone does."

"You lose clients too. Probably because you're too _mean _to them."

"I'm intimidating, and it usually proves effective."

"Can you both shut your mouths?" Stanley barely glanced up.

"I don't hear you on the phone either." Snapped Dwight.

Phyllis sided with Stanley:

"You guys _should_ get back to work."

"Fine." Dwight and Andy said together. This caused them to half-glare at each other. They continued, unintentionally in unison, "I dare you to..."

"Wait!" called Jim, interested again, "You both dared each other at the same time. So you should both do the same dare."

"And I vote it's, 'everybody be quiet and do their work.'" Stanley said immediately.

"What were you gonna say?" Jim asked, waving Stanley off, to which he rolled his eyes.

Andy twirled his hand in a sort of bow, indicating for Dwight to go first.

"Andy needs to be more direct and forceful with clients. For a whole day."

"Oh," said Andy, kind of excited, "I was gonna dare you to be nicer."

"That's not too bad an idea," Phyllis reached through her desk to find a notecard, "Do it for the whole day, and I'll keep score." Anything to make her day more exciting...

"Great." Jim nodded and looked again to his pile of paperwork.

("I did it to get them to shut up," Phyllis later told the camera crew, "When one of them starts, they argue for hours. Like little girls.")

Trying to set his face into a scowl, Andy reached for his phone. He had to keep glancing up at Stanley, just to make sure he was doing it right.

"Ms. Davenport. This is Andy Bernard again, from Dunder-Mifflin, yah... I know your business needs more than just the thirty reams you ordered this morning. Order now and I can get them shipped free. No, no time to think about it. This is limited-time, hot-off-the-press, brand-new Bernard special."

Dwight scanned his box of contact-cards and made a call.

"Yes, good morning. Mmhmm, Dwight from Dunder-Mifflin here. Hope you're having a... pleasant day. Just want you to know that if you reorder this week, I can get your entire purchase shipped for free. Yes, absolutely."

Phyllis only looked back and forth for an hour. It wasn't until lunch that the competition snagged her interest again.

Dwight had pulled out Andy's chair for him in the break-room. Andy had a hard time not thanking him, but he did manage to choose another seat, looking as if the one Dwight offered had burned him.

"What's the score?" Dwight demanded of Phyllis as she retrieved her sandwich from the fridge.

"That wasn't politely phrased, Dwight!" Quipped Andy, coming up behind them.

"Quiet, you."

"Hang on, I'll be right back." Phyllis informed them, "I need to go subtract points from Dwight now."

He made a soft growling noise at this, eyes blaming Andy.

By the time Phyllis returned, Dwight had sliced her sandwich into fancy strips. Each of which had been bitten in half by Andy. Dwight took up what remained and ate it himself, while Andy, giving an apologetic grin, offered Phyllis his own lunch. She shook her head at their hopeless spiral of behavior.

For the rest of the day, no sales-calls were made by Dwight _or_ Andy. They spent their time trying to outdo each other, and they made sure Phyllis was nearby to observe every motion.

"Can you get them to stop?" Phyllis whispered to Jim later in the afternoon, "I thought this would work out better."

Jim shrugged. He looked at Pam for support, but she shrugged too. Her eyes told him that it _was_ his idea, after all.

"I highly doubt it. At least it's only for the day."

Phyllis looked contemplative as she returned to her desk.

"Both of you _stop_!" Phyllis nearly yelled. Andy was lying beneath Dwight's desk, meddling with the wires for his computer. Dwight, meanwhile, was at Andy's seat, alphabetizing his contact-cards.

They looked to her, but she didn't continue.

Jim was cued by this, and stood.

"Who made the most sales today?" he quizzed them, staring beneath his desk at Andy, who shrugged, causing him to hit his shoulder on the base of Dwight's chair.

"Son of a...!"

"Who made the most sales?"

Neither of them knew.

"Phyllis, what do you have scored?"

She picked up the notecard and counted the marks. Earlier, when she falsely 'recorded' them, she made sure it would result in a tie. Now, she wasn't sure that was a great ending either.

"It's tied." She said flatly, "Because Andy was still being polite and Dwight was kind of a jerk again."

"Then the only thing to do is just call the whole dare off." Jim said too quickly.

Phyllis looked relieved, and shoved the scorecard beneath her keyboard. She hoped this would be a place it couldn't struggle out of any time soon.

Andy got up from the ground and went to shake hands with Dwight.

"That was a weird, kinda exercise thing, man. I thought 'Management Training' killed every mean cell in my body."

"I hope you continue losing clients."

"That was unnecessary."

"You didn't let me finish. I hope you continue losing clients, but only if I am the one who takes them."

"That seems fair."

"It isn't. The outcome favors me, especially figuring we get paid by commission..."

"What commissions?" Jim asked them. They rushed for their phones.


	10. Good Intentions

_Good Intentions_

"Hey, you still haven't found a frame for this." Jim nudged Pam's shoulder, forcing her to look at a painting on the floor of their garage, half-cloaked by a sheet.

"You don't frame canvases."

"Okay, but I didn't fail Art School."

"You didn't even go!" Pam's eyes were thoughtful, "We should put it up right now."

"Of course we should."

Pam scooped it up while Jim folded away the fabric.

* * *

><p>"I don't know what to do with this." Pam announced when they finally returned home, wedding gifts in tow.<p>

"You could go with Michael's suggestion." Jim joined her in staring at the painting she held.

"I am not going to hang it in the bedroom."

"We can say the baby painted it."

"Sounds impressive. Maybe if we wait until after it's _born_."

"Just trying to help."

"And then we would need to name the baby 'Michael'."

She pointed at Michael's signature in the corner, watching Jim give a comical shudder.

"I bet it looked amazing in his head." Pam said, suddenly feeling sorry, "I'm gonna make it how he imagined it."

Pam went to the cabinets in the back of the garage, returning with a stack of paint jars, several clean brushes, and a lavender apron, covered in painted handprints.

As she set it down, Jim tied her apron behind her back, brushing her hair out of the way. Pam immediately began mixing colors, right on the cement ground of the garage.

"So _you're_ going to paint _us_?" Jim asked, sitting down to watch.

"Mmhmm."

"Should I bring dinner out or is this more of a popcorn thing?"

"What's dinner?" Pam began a border of gentle, sepia fleur de les, giving the canvas a vintage and royal aura.

"I could make... sandwiches."

Pam shook her head.

"Popcorn. With... parmesan cheese."

He nodded, lips folded, as he went inside.

When he returned with two separate bags of popcorn (his was unhampered by her spontaneous craving), Pam had started to paint his face.

"I look nothing like that."

She took the popcorn, glancing between her husband and her work for comparison.

"Yah, you do. I'm trying to give you a serious look, okay?"

He leaned closer and closer in to watch her.

"I wouldn't hang _that_ in my bedroom either." He said jokingly.

"That's fine. I'll hang it in my _own_ bedroom."

"Oh, you're gonna buy your own house too?"

"Stop it," she giggled, then, very seriously, "Let me work."

"That was really creepy."

"Shh!"

He was content to watch the madness unfold. If he would've brought out his video camera, he was sure he could've become famous.

Pam was sitting on the floor, shoveling grainy popcorn into her mouth with one hand. Every so often, she would keep a piece between her lips, staring so intensely at her project that she stopped moving completely. She was mixing her colors on the floor of the garage, occasionally forgetting to move her feet out of the way.

"Is this what all artists look like when they work?" Jim asked.

"Probably. Now don't look."

"Why not?"

"I'm adding the final touches. And I don't want you to complain."

He turned around; busying himself with a walk to the trash can, where he threw his empty popcorn bag.

For almost another hour, Pam perfected the 'final touches' while Jim faced the opposite wall.

"Okay." Said Pam, voice unsure.

Jim turned, expecting beauty. But even then, he was surprised.

"It's... perfect."

Since he last saw it, Pam had added their outfits: Pam wore her wedding dress and torn veil. Jim was in his suit, tie slashed diagonally up the middle.

The whole thing was tinted with hues of brown and grey, appearing antique. Both figures wore tight, reserved smiles, harkening to the days when only frowns were allowed in photographs. The themes had a quiet dispute, but Jim was not interrupted by it.

"Here," Pam gestured to the top corners of the artwork, "Hold it up so I can sign it."

He did so. Adding to the formally-informal appearance of the painting, she signed 'PBH', then carefully drew a slash through the 'B'.

Pam knelt and moved behind the painting. With her coal pencil, she wrote its title.

"Good Intentions." Read Jim, eternally impressed.

He set it down and, over it, they shared a hug.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hey, if anyone is pretty good with Photoshop (or if they draw or paint, that would be even cooler!) and wants to try to recreate the picture, I'd pretty much love you forever. And I would write you a request :D<br>THANKS, as always!**


	11. Surplus Circus

_Surplus Circus_

"Should I throw this away?" Erin was cleaning out Michael's desk. Michael, meanwhile, was lying on the floor of his office, rubbing his eyes and barely looking at each item she displayed.

"What is it? His words were crammed into one rather quiet syllable.

"It just says 'One Day Only.'"

"Flip it over."

She glanced at it and offered him a summary: "It has a lot of really small font. Something about clients getting good deals on extra paper. It's a few years old, so it probably expired, right? I mean, I wasn't even working here when..."

"Put it in my 'Good Idea' folder." Said Michael, sitting up.

* * *

><p>"That's a horrible idea." Said Oscar, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.<p>

"No, no, no." Michael was adamant, "This is a positive environment and all the ideas we have in this room are good ones."

"_I _liked it..." began Andy.

Ryan slowly raised his hand as an argument unfolded behind him. The room silenced as Michael called on him.

"Temp."

Ryan shrugged at this and stated, "Why don't we just contact clients that purchased under their quota, and sell them the surplus at a discounted rate...?"

"Whoa, Business school terms!" Smiled Michael, "Simplify that for Pam, please. Because she's the receptionist and I don't expect her to know the…"

"Michael!" exclaimed Pam.

"...But that is a great job for the modern woman to have if..."

Ryan saved the staff from Michael's next offensive comment by deciding to simplify anyway. He stood:

"We sell our extra paper cheaper to people who forgot to order it."

"That sounds nice." Said Phyllis, "It's kind of formal and makes us look friendly, too."

"Smart kid." Declared Creed.

"No." Michael tossed his arms, "Worst idea ever. I can't even pretend to be happy about that, because it means we lose money. And apparently Ryan missed that in 'Business school', but losing money is _bad_."

Kevin nodded, causing Oscar and Angela to roll their eyes together.

"Here's how it's gonna go," began Michael, scribbling on his display board, "'The Dunder-Mifflin Surplus Circus'. We use the extra palettes of paper to build the bleachers, then all of you can come up with an act. Don't worry, you still get your commissions based on how many..."

"That's a safety hazard, Michael... the palettes…" Toby scratched his head, debating whether or not he should've even mentioned it.

"_You_ are a safety hazard. Because you make me wanna jump off the roof every day and kill myself."

While Kelly gasped, Dwight's eyes darted up from his notepad:

"You did that once as a demonstration. That wasn't a great example to give, because you didn't die..."

"He walked down the stairs!" Meredith called.

"Was that the day with the bouncy-castle?" Kelly started, "Because I think that's when we..."

Michael waved his hands to cut them off.

"No it was... no. Surplus Circus. We charge admission to clients, which is where we profit. Then we have games and entertainment, which we build with palettes," here, he glared at Toby, "and they win boxes of cream printer-glossy. Because that's what we have the most of left."

"Cream printer-glossy is hideous and impractical." Said Dwight, "I refuse to sell it."

"That's why we have extra." Jim added, offhand.

"Positive environment!" Michael tore the top page from the display board, "What events would you like to run at Surplus Circus?" He prepared to take notes.

"That sounds like Circus Circus!" Kelly discovered. Michael threw down his marker.

Michael's hands tugged at his hair while he groaned.

"Kelly, that's the point. Kelly... oh my god. It is sad and pathetic… _All_ of you live under a roach."

"Rock." Added Jim habitually.

"Dwight?" Michael pleaded.

"The phrase is 'under a rock'. It implies that you can't see or keep up with…"

"No, not that. How do we get rid of the paper?"

"You're asking me and not Jim?" Dwight smiled and stared across the aisle at Jim.

"You're asking a question everyone in the room knows the answer to?" Jim muttered.

"Quiet, you." Dwight turned attentively back to Michael, his usually-unreadable eyes glossing with guilt, "The temp has a marketable idea."

Angela looked disappointedly at Dwight. Andy watched her, trying to pinpoint what _he_ had done wrong. Kelly nudged Andy and tried to read his expression. Eventually, everyone in the room was focusing on someone _other_ than Michael.

"Come on!" Exclaimed Michael, backing away, "I printed the tickets already! Here's a little preview, and the rest are in boxes in my office."

The sales team, even Stanley, looked at the tickets Michael produced from his coat pocket.

"Do you _see_ what those are printed on?" Stanley sounded vain.

Andy, nervously restraining his anger, folded his arms and closed both eyes, exhaling loudly.

Phyllis and Jim were studying the floor, internally counting the commissions they'd just lost with Michael's latest scheme.

Still, Michael didn't quite understand.

"How many tickets did you print?" Andy asked, resetting his eyes.

Michael shrugged his shoulders.

It was a rare occurrence; Dwight was the first to leave the room. He was followed, of course, by everyone else in a tight cluster.

"You printed the tickets on our 'surplus'." Jim explained, patting Michael's arm.

Michael bit his bottom lip and tried to smile, but wasn't successful.

"Cream printer-glossy?"

Jim nodded and left Michael alone.


	12. A Touch of Class

_A Touch of Class_

Andy had to keep surveying the area around his desk to make sure no one was watching him. He was sorting the files in his desk drawers, and found one that needed to be properly disposed of, without a choice few seeing...

Pam, though, had noticed his suspicious behavior, and waved her arms until she caught the corner of Jim's eyes. She pointed, grinning and giggling silently.

Jim leaned over to Andy's desk.

"What do you have there?"

Andy dropped the papers, shiny and embossed, back into the drawer and slammed it.

"Nothing, Big Tuna, sir. Not a thing."

"Really?"

Andy nodded and had trouble smiling for the first time in a long time. Quickly, his mouth formed a hopeless 'o' shape and his eyes wandered...

* * *

><p>"Meeting in session." Announced Pam, trying on a serious tone, "All members present."<p>

Andy tapped his fingers on the table in the lunchroom, until he found a syncopated beat that he liked.

He slowed, then stopped, after noticing all the eyes in the room were dancing around his.

Pam looked satisfied, and began to write on a notepad that waited for her on the table, between her lunch and Toby's, who was sitting beside her. Oscar sat on her other side, and Andy sat facing her.

"The Finer Things Club will now discuss Andy's pending membership." Pam said, still writing.

Toby shifted in his seat and tugged at his bowtie. Andy did the same while he took turns watching the other three.

Oscar wanted to start speaking, but Pam had the meeting under control. She wasn't anticipating them accepting Andy's membership; she was just carrying on to bother him (without realizing that could end worse for everyone).

"Can I just say something?" Andy mused, after a weird silence.

Pam nodded to him, barely glancing up from her notes.

"I think I could bring something great and new to this organization."

No one asked him what this new 'something' was, which butchered the script that floated around his mind. He improvised:

"I want to just add layers of... class... to what you've got here. And there is definitely nothing classier than an a ca..."

"We couldn't have that, Andy. It's a ..." Toby was quickly shushed.

"A cappella group. Here, live, to sing at every meeting. And we-_they_'ve got nice tuxes."

"I'm positive we can't afford that." Groaned Oscar.

"No; I know how to set up a conference-call, thank you."

"Then how would we know they're wearing tuxedos?" Toby said this half to himself. Pam turned to giggle.

...Which caused Andy to roll his eyes and take a sharp breath.

"I will buy us a web-cam." He did a remarkable job at sounding polite and hiding his defeat.

"Okay," said Pam, "That could be good."

More notes were taken. Even though he couldn't read them from his seat, Andy grinned.

("I felt great about it," he explained to the documentary crew, "Just turned up the Nard-Dog charm. Made sure not to look creepy. And a cappella gets all the girls hooked. Pam should vote me in, at least."

There was a gentle knock on the window behind him. He disregarded it and continued looking to the cameraman. After the knock was repeated, one of the crew members patted Andy's shoulder to turn him around.

A sheet of paper was taped to the window, which the cameras zoomed in on. Andy ducked out of their shot while he read it.

It said: 'We are sorry to announce that the Finer Things Club has been temporarily disbanded. Thank you for your interest.'

"Hang on," said Andy to the camera. He dashed out of the room, followed by his own camera team, interested in the urgency he took with him.

The main camera brought Pam into the room shortly after.

"I couldn't tell him 'no.'" Pam muttered, eyes moving quickly, "He tried."

Meanwhile, Andy's camera followed him to the break room. From the cabinet, he collected the coffee mugs of Pam, Oscar and Toby as quickly as he could. He removed a silky, fragrant, and obviously expensive, imported tea-bag from each cup. Beneath these was a glossy invitation to the _Premiere_ _Luncheon_; something Andy already dreamed up.

"Figures," he sighed, taking his cell phone from his coat pocket, "Using my lunch-hour to call the guys, then."

The camera caught a frame of the invitation header, reading "_Featuring Here Comes Treble, the Pride of Cornell_".

Andy dialed while he walked to his desk. The invitations were slid into his desk drawer and glared at.)

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hey all! Keep the feedback coming; it really brightens my day, and makes it so much easier to get back to writing. I love your input :)<strong>


	13. The Original

_The Original_

Jim saw something glistening from beneath the picture-frame on his desk and just _had_ to reach for it.

It was, in fact, the lid to a cup of yogurt. With his thumb, he rubbed some dust and paper shreds off of it to read its message.

He laughed and surged from his desk; Pam needed to see this immediately.

* * *

><p>It was Jim's second Tuesday of ever working at Dunder-Mifflin. Pam checked on him frequently, especially after Dwight was through with his daily interrogation ('gentle and necessary hazing', as Dwight described it to the cameras, with a decisive nod.)<p>

For at least the third time, Jim caught Pam as she was opening a cup of yogurt.

Inspired, he took a stroll to her desk.

"Where do you keep all of that?" he asked, trying not to sound creepy.

"Are you calling me fat right now?" she was laughing, but he still took a cautious step back. Then an apologetic one forward.

"No... that's not even what I meant... I just meant... do you have like a fridge at your desk or something? Because I was..."

"Want some?"

From this mysterious fridge, she removed another yogurt, peeled back the lid, and handed it to Jim. She took a spoon out of her lunch bag.

"What kind is...?"

"Key-lime." Quipped Pam, "I don't like it that much, but it was in the variety-pack."

Michael, at this exact moment, stumbled free of his office door. He glanced at his newest 'family member' and his faithful receptionist.

Pam shook her head, just slightly, which Jim understood as, 'just let him walk by.'

Michael stopped, halfway between Pam's desk and Jim's. Dwight's eyes followed him eagerly.

Jim strived to produce a normal conversation, so Michael would leave.

"No, it's pretty good." He said. Pam watched, ready to play along, "Key-lime's alright."

"I guess so." agreed Pam.

"It's really creamy." Jim took another bite and was confused to see Michael's eyes light up:

"That's what she said." His words tumbled together and stirred his own laughter.

Dwight surveyed the area, looking increasingly puzzled after each time he blinked.

He was reaching for Michael's attention, but it was useless; he'd already slammed his office door, still laughing proudly at himself.

"Say another one." Pam grinned, "I think we can get Dwight pretty good."

"How...?"

"Just say another one... I'm not sure yet..."

"I could... eat this all night?" Jim offered.

"That's what she said!" Pam made sure she was loud enough for Dwight to hear.

Once again, he turned around, searching for this mysterious 'she'.

At once, he scooped up a piece of paper from his in-tray and went to the copier, not caring at all what the paper was. He just needed to get closer...

Pam whispered, setting her yogurt down on her desk, "say it to me this time... I won't even say one... just do it, I'm ready."

"That's what she said." Jim told her, then added, much softer, "That worked, you know."

Dwight slammed the cover over his paper and pressed some buttons with a fist.

"It was just a joke, Dwight." Pam said through a smile. It brought her unspeakable joy to see him becoming increasingly annoyed. He tapped his fingers on the copier, then set to wiping his glasses with the handkerchief from inside his coat.

"Oh, you don't who 'she' is?" Jim asked, entertained, for the first time, with his new coworkers.

("I thought I had it figured out." Dwight explained to the cameras, "I was thinking the new-hire was actually a woman, posing as a man named Jim. The name really got me, because it's so simple. But then, Jim, who still probably is a woman, mentioned her in third-person... So Jim's either brilliant, or really, really stupid.")

"Dwight, calm down." Pam told him, after noticing more and more copies of his unidentified paper filling the tray.

"You're going too fast." Jim added.

"That's what she said!" Michael was peeking out from around his door, and gave a satisfied smile, "Two for Tuesday!"

Dwight did a double-take at Michael, before spinning a full circle around the copier. He went to inspect Pam's desk area, eyes shifty.

"Is _she_ talking about me?" Dwight demanded of Jim, standing too close and speaking in a frightful whisper.

"Can't you hear her?" Jim asked, looking amazed.

Dwight huffed and turned away. He needed a new strategy... which involved waiting for someone else to speak:

"You should get back to work, Dwight." Jim offered, genuinely trying not to sound snippy. He wasn't up for losing his job already.

"That's what she said." Dwight declared, watching for Michael's reaction.

"Lame!" Michael added at once, "That was really dumb, Dwight. You can do better."

"Didn't you hear her say it?" Dwight began to wonder which side he was even on.

"Dwight!" Pam was excited to gang up on him, "You don't what 'that's what she said' jokes are?"

"Wow." Jim shook his head in fake disbelief.

"Okay, guys, looks like Dwight and I need to have 'the talk'." Announced Michael, "My office, young man." He laughed at himself, yet again.

As soon as the door was shut, Pam offered Jim a high-five.

"That was good, new guy. I think it deserves a trophy."

She reached for the lid of his yogurt, which he held over her desk-shelf.

"Hang on, I need to lick it."

She giggled, took it anyway, and said the following words while simultaneously scribbling them on the lid:

'That's what she said.'

Jim laughed too, and knew he would need to keep it forever, if not on display.


	14. Jam and Jelly

In Dwight's routine cleaning of the kitchen, he discovered several offensively expired products. Among these he found a jar each of jam and jelly. Contrary to popular belief, he knew that both were capable of 'expiring', and placed them deep in the garbage bag so no one could see them and plead for their lives.

* * *

><p>Kelly dashed to meet Jim in the kitchen. She had <em>so<em> much to talk to him about!

This was her morning break session, and she was pleased with her timing: she could enjoy a snack _and_ chat with Jim before returning to work. She checked the time on her cell phone frequently, and had even set a timer.

Jim sat down at the table nearest the fridge, folding and unfolding his hands. Kelly sat across from him, occasionally accenting her stories with a picture on her phone.

"So Brangelina haven't set their wedding date yet, but the…"

"Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie."

"Right. Haven't set a date, but they want to adopt a little girl from whichever place they go to. That's just a rumor. It's probably not true."

"Don't they have like ten kids already?"

"They have three."

"That's it? Wow." Jim curled his lips at this, deeply shocked but not slightly concerned. Kelly liked this face. She giggled:

"Biologically. Then they adopted three more. Six total."

"Gotcha."

"Here, this is a picture of the place in Paris they were looking at. I think that would be just adorable with the sunset…" here, she added a dreamy sigh and slid the cell phone toward Jim. He studied the image and nodded.

"Do they have to change their couple name?" Jim asked. He barely knew the concept of these portmanteaus, let alone the rules of their usage. Kelly hadn't considered this, judging by her sulking eyes.

"That's a good question… I don't know. I'll look that up at lunch. Oh, right. Were you hungry?"

"What do you have?" Jim placed her phone in the middle of the table. The screen had fallen asleep, likely annoyed with the picture it bore.

Kelly was inspecting the contents of the refrigerator, humming and swaying her head, mentally weighing the possibilities.

"I'm gonna make the cutest sandwiches. Like ladyfinger ones. Do you want… strawberry jam or grape jelly?" She produced both jars and waved them.

Dwight walked in at this moment, quietly shutting the door behind him.

"Doesn't matter, Kelly. They're the same." Jim chose not to notice Dwight.

Dwight shook his head at this.

"Jam and jelly are completely different."

"Did you want one, Dwight?" Jim asked, ignoring his interjection.

Remaining equally undeterred, Dwight proceeded:

"Jelly is strained juice with sugar. Jam is the whole fruit with pectin. Totally different. And no, I do not."

Kelly, during this, had removed both from the fridge. She had covered a slice of bread with each, and was at work adding peanut butter. She wiped the knife off over the sink before slicing the bread into lengthwise strips. A nice glass plate held the finished products on the table.

Jim passed a slice of his the strawberry selection to Dwight.

"When does this expire?" He looked skeptically at the fruit which ebbed from the edges of the bread.

"Isn't pectin a preservative?" Jim liked bothering Dwight and was thrilled when Kelly played along, simultaneously adding:

"Aren't you a farmer?"

Dwight huffed at this and left, eating the sandwich in one bite and glaring.

"Did you know that jam and jelly were different?" Jim asked Kelly, once the door had shut.

Kelly laughed. As he finished one strip of his snack, he continued:

"No but really, _that_ is some hot gossip."

"Wait… oh, my god. Oh my god!"

"What?" Jim set down his sandwich to observe her expression properly.

"'Jam' is the couple name for you and Pam! Oh my god that's so cute."

Kelly shook in her chair, looking to the ceiling and grinning.

"Shhh… what?"

"Jim and Pam: Jam. Like Brangelina."

"Yep."

"And Jam is different from Jelly, which is yours and mine."

"Jim and Kelly? But we're…"

"We're just friends. That's _totally different_."

Jim admitted laughing at her realization. And her fairly accurate mocking of Dwight. They shared a high-five as the timer on Kelly's phone buzzed.

"See you and Pam at lunch." She told him, ducking away.

"Jam."

"Right."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Well, this was fun. I got to research Brangelina, which I knew nothing about. And got to showcase my knowledge of jam and jelly (that I did know… I make jam all the time xD) I hope you enjoyed this, and, if you're interested in my Office writing, I encourage you to look at my "The Heart Runs a Cycle, They Say" because I update that one more frequently. And the most recent chapters include some cute Pam, Dwight, Oscar and Andy. You'll love it. (End shameless advertising here.)<strong>

**Thanks,  
>S. Sorrell<strong>


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